


Erase Myself

by staringatademigod



Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Murder House
Genre: alive tate
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-09
Updated: 2016-08-07
Packaged: 2018-07-22 11:27:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7435817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/staringatademigod/pseuds/staringatademigod
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tate wasn't always a psycho. He had a life before the shooting. This is it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Morning's Suck

The sun peeks through the crack of the aqua curtains, landing directly on the blond's face. A long arm stretches out from underneath the flat pillow; smacking across his eyes. The red alarm clock numbers on the dark brown bedside table read 5:30. Beeps spew from beside him.

He groans, waving the hand that's not sprawled on his face towards the device. When he finally hits the button to silence it, he's already awake. No point in trying to go back to sleep now. As he moves his arm, his eyelids peel open slowly, relieving his dark brown orbs. The light blue sheets pull back, exposing his bare chest and ruby boxers.

He swings the two long legs that are attached to him to the edge of the bed before bringing his upper body up. As he twists his chest, cracking it, he blinks rapidly; eyes trying to adjust to the new found light. Pulling himself up to stand, he wobbles slightly while walking to the oak dresser across the room, slamming both hands on it and rubbing his eye.

Lifting his head up, he stares at the mirror that's attached to the dresser. Typical Tate. Blond curls askew, slight purple bags packed under his dark orbs that won't go away; no matter how much sleep he got. With a sigh, he cards his fingers through his mane, taking out some of the knots that are hibernating in the curls. He looks in the mirror again; good enough. Long fingers grab drawer handles, yanking it towards him.

He allows the palms of his hands to trail over all the soft sweaters before pulling out a black and red one. It has black long sleeves and a red and black checkered torso. He slips into the cotton shirt, making sure it covers his stomach fully; unlike some of his clothes. Then he grabs the ripped jeans that are piled on the shaggy dark green rug, stepping into the pant legs and tugging them up his slender hips.

After he uses the bathroom (which is attached to his room), brushes his teeth, pees and washes face, he returns to his dresser, picking his skull thumb ring up and putting it on. His head whips toward the small clock. 5:53.

With a long sigh, he steps in his old beat up red converses, not bothering to tie them just yet. Dragging his feet, he opens the door to the hallway and shuffles out of his room. He rubs one of his eyes with the back of his hand as he leans on the wall, still walking. "Adds, time to get up kiddo." He yawns, stepping into his sister’s room.

She's still sleeping, of course. Her long brown hair falling all around her; her mouth framed with a sleepy pout. It pains Tate to have to wake her up. He tiptoes over to her orange bed, sitting carefully at the end. Hesitantly, he reaches his arm out, touching her shoulder gently. "Princess...come on, you gotta get up to go to school..." He whispers, shaking her softly.

She whines a little, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. "I don't wanna." She pouts, folding her arms.

Tate looks around the room dramatically with an exaggerated sigh. "That's too bad. I was gonna make pancakes but now..." He trails off, staring at the wall to the side, smirking. In seconds she's up, throwing off her blankets. "Hey, hey, easy now!" He laughs, standing to go to the closet. "Okay, it's gonna be really cold today; so layers." He mumbles mostly to himself, swiping the clothes on the hangers.

The smooth plum dress with sleeves catches his eye and he plucks it from the hanger. Spinning on his heel, he holds the dress up; Addie nods in approval, grabbing the fabric from his grasp. He walks backwards out the door, mumbling a 'be right back'. Rushing to the closet, he gets a pile of quilts and goes to the attic. "Beau, if you get cold there's blankets out here, okay?!" He yells through the door, plopping the quilts next to the uneaten food. Not a sound.

Shoelaces flop around his feet while he hurries downstairs, humming Never Going Back Again by Fleetwood Mac softly. Addie comes out of her room; dressed but her hair is still messy. Biting his lip, he goes in the small bathroom, returning with the brush. He shoves it in his back pocket for the time being and his hand grips the tiny girl’s waist, picking her up and clutching her body to his chest. She giggles as he hops down the stairs.

When at the bottom, he places her on the floor, darting towards the kitchen. The brunette follows the tall boy, laughing hysterically; because to her, it's a game. Tate chuckles too until he looks at the lime green clock numbers on the oven. 6:18. Shit. He claps his hands together, crouching to her level. "New plan, princess. Cereal now and pancakes for dinner?" He pleads, squinting one eye and frowning.

With a long sigh, the little girl nods, climbing into one of the dinner table chairs. Part of Tate wants to say 'fuck it' and make pancakes, but he knows if he is late again, shit will happen. The tan cabinet door swings open and he yanks a light blue bowl out, setting it on the gray counter top.

"Tate, is mommy gonna be home for dinner tonight?" Addie asks as he pours the Cheerios in the bowl. He stops suddenly for a mere second before shaking his head, setting the cereal box down.

The bowl clinks in front of her. The blond goes to the fridge, going to get the milk. His hand wraps around the sleek black handle but he doesn't open the door. Instead, he squints, reading the note that his mother must've left on the fridge. He sighs, finally grabbing the milk out. "No Adds...she went on a trip again. Looks like it's you, me and Beau for a while." He grumbles, pouring the milk in the bowl. It's always this way, he's not surprised. 

Addie pouts, pushing around the cereal. “Always is…” She slowly puts the spoon in her mouth, watching her brother lean back against the counter with his leg raised to tie his shoe. “You’re not eating?” she sputters; almost too hard to understand.

“I’ll, uh, eat on the way to school.” He mutters, putting her tin Powerpuff Girls lunchbox in her backpack. Was that a lie? Yes. Tate never eats breakfast. Even though his stomach grumbles in every single class at least five times. The metal spoon bouncing off the bowl makes Tate focus back, and he finishes zipping the bag. “You done?” Addie nods, hopping from the chair, grabbing her bright yellow backpack as he places the bowl in the sink. “Ah, ah, ah, where do you think you’re going; get back here!” He laughs, peering over his shoulder. 6:34. 

Sluggishly, the little girl goes toward her older brother; the lavender boots scuffing the wood floorboards. Plastic bristles meet the snarled long dark hair, removing the knots carefully. “Why doesn’t mommy do this?” She blinks a few times with every word; tongue coming out of her mouth.

For a moment, he debates in his head; sugar coat it or not? “Mom...isn’t a good parent all the time. That’s why.” he explains, tilting his head to the side. Kinda sugar coated it. Addie stares at him with a blank expression. “But, you have me. I’ll always take care of you and Beau, ‘kay?” He grins, showing his massive dimples; Addie nods in response. “Ready to wait for the bus?” He holds his hand out and she takes it, playing with the silver thumb ring as they walk to the front door; he swings it open.

When they exit the house, Tate’s grip tightens. He picks her up with one arm and runs down the stairs; making her giggle. They turn around, “Wave by to Nora!” He whispers, waving to the tall beautiful blonde ghost that appeared. Addie waves her small hand with a smile. Fixing his checkered sweater so it covers his torso fully, he twirls them back to the street just in time for the bright school bus to pull up. “Have a good day, princess.” He beams, ushering her up the steep steps.

All that he can see through dust covered windows is the top of his sisters purple headband until she sits down. Smiling, he waves his hand back and forth; the silver skull shining in the sun. The bus puffs out gas before driving ahead. Tate lets out a breath that’s been locked inside his chest, lifting his left leg high and spinning on his right, booking back in the giant house.

He taps his jeans quickly, squinting around. What does he need? The hanging house key catches his attention and he grabs it, shoving it in his front pocket. Messenger bag is next; the strap goes over his head, pushing his hair to one side. Of course. He removes his black trench coat from the closet, slinging it on his shoulders; not bothering to put his arms in the arm holes. “Shit.” He coughs, peeking at the time. 6:48. School started already.

Before leaving, he plugs his thick headphones into the charcoal mp3 player, blasting Territorial Pissings by Nirvana. The tan skateboard with band stickers leans against the corner and he grabs it, going outside, throwing it to the cracked sidewalk. After adjusting his headphones, he jumps on the board, pushing off; his trench coat flapping around him.

He leans to the right, bending a corner; his old brown messenger bag flying off his side. Cars drive past, not paying him any mind until he crosses the street; multiple car horns echo through his ears. A smirk creeps on his pale lips.

Up ahead, he sees the hell hole and sighs inwardly. Stepping his heel back on the lip, the skateboard flings to his knee. His pointer and ring finger hold the truck as he speed walks to the entrance. The skull clings on the long door handle; he pulls but it doesn’t budge. “Of. Fuckin’. Course.” He grits his teeth together, yanking the handle with more force and looking up at the sky. This can’t get worse.

The blond bites his lip, cupping a hand over his squinted eyes while he looks through the window. Everyone’s probably in first period already. Tate peers to the right side of the hallway to the left, spotting a teacher coming towards the door. Quickly, he backs up; the heavy metal door slamming open.

“Mr. Langdon! How nice of you to show up finally!” Mr. Clarck says condescendingly, pushing Tate inside and closing the door. It locks with a click. Tate spins to face the short, pudgy man, about to raise a finger. “Lunch detention. My office.”


	2. People At School Suck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Late mornings in fuck up everything for Tate.

tw: eating disorders, bloody noses

The bottoms of the red worn out converse squeak against the polish floor, echoing through the empty halls. His free hand runs over the cool metal of the lockers. He stops when he gets to number 64; his.

He spins the black dial round and round a few times before pulling up the metal handle. He tosses the skateboard in the small space and lands with a loud clunk. The trench coat still hangs from his bony shoulders and his right hand grabs the collar, swinging it over his head. Cringing as he throws it on the board, he grabs the sleek blue text book; the palm of his hand presses to his left eyebrow. Stupid chronic migraines.

With a deep breath, he shuts the locker, squeezing his eyelids close for a second. Class. Need to get to class. Can't get another detention. He shakes his head, blond curls flying, and drums on the textbook shoved under his arm. Converse pad on the floor in a fluid motion until he passes the classroom. His right leg flies up as he hops on his left foot, going backwards.

Putting his leg down, he fixes his sweater again this morning, swinging the heavy door open. Anxiety floods through him when he steps in the room. Everyone stops and stares at the exit. Tate coughs awkwardly, moving his bag strap and bowing his head, racing to the back of the room to his desk.

The petite ginger puckers her pink lips, glancing behind her at the clock. "Langdon...late again I see?" She folds her arms; jewelry jangling against her skinny wrists. There's a few snickers.

Well shit. Way to call someone out. A blush paints itself on Tate's cheeks as he slinks down in the polished chair even further. "Sorry Mrs. Murphy..." He mumbles quietly; groaning internally. They don't understand. Don't know about Addie or Beau or Constance and Larry.

"I'm sure it won't happen again, right Tate?" She presses, narrowing her green eyes at him. He nods. "Good... Like I was saying..." She continues the lesson; going on about the Civil War or something along those lines.

Tate doesn't pay her much attention. She's a teacher after all. He pretends to listen to the lectures in his three periods.

When lunch finally rolls around, it's detention time. Tate slugs towards Mr. Clarck's office; toying with his torn up messenger bag strap. A frown masks his face as per usual. Damn principal. Curling his long fingers into themselves, he bangs his knobby knuckle on the door. "Come in!" A gruff voice says.

 

Puffing his cheeks out, the blond opens the door; his doe eyes glued to the ugly diamond pattern carpet as he enters. He sits in the clunky wood chair that has rough green cushions and stares at the big man at the large desk. Just stares blankly. Not saying a word, not making any move to eat, nothing. 

“Where’s your lunch?” Mr. Clarck inquires, folding his hands on top of the blue pad on the desk. 

Tate shrugs nonchalantly, peeking at his lap while he crosses his legs; knees exposed through holes. Should he lie or nah? “Forgot it.” He says bluntly, breathing in through his nose. Lie it is. His brown orbs take in the all too familiar room. It looks just like any other principal’s office; two gray metal filing cabinets behind the desk, another chair beside Tate, plants here and there, minimal pictures and plaques on the cream colored walls. “I’m not even hungry.” He puffs out, staring at the wall instead of the man.

Sure, this was the fourth meal he skipped in the past three days; he didn’t care. There isn’t much food in the house, he gave the kids most of it; which reminds him to stop at the store after work. School food is shit so why pay for it? 

Stomach growls and he wraps his arms around himself protectively. Damn body. His gaze darts back to the small clock behind his head. 12:45. Lunch ends in like six minutes; thank god. Slumping back in the uncomfortable seat, watching the man open his mouth painfully slow. “Wanna tell me why you were late again, Mr. Langdon?” He asks, raising a gray eyebrow above steel metal glasses. If only Tate could control metal…

“Not really…” He huffs under his breath. Did he want to tell? Not one bit. “I was getting my sister on the bus.” He grits his teeth together. Long fingers dig into the armrests, his hands turning paler than usual. 

Mr. Clarck leans back in his black leather wheely chair. His eyes practically burn holes into the blond’s flesh; causing him to shift awkwardly. The old man shifts his eyes to the clock. 12:52. “Hmm… Try not to be late again; next time is after school detention.” Tate glares at him with a scowl. “Get out of my office.”

Finally. Brown eyes roll as the teen walks through the door into the massive lobby, gripping his bag. The annoying school bell rings, soon followed by tons of kids flooding the hall. Tate sighs, getting pushed around like one of his sister’s ragdolls. Usually he can handle the petty shoves and occasional trips that other students do.

Suddenly a broad body slams into his and he tumbles to the ground. His head collides with the marble tiles; papers spill from the rip of his old bag. “Watch where you’re going, dumbass!” echoes through his ears. It was their own damn fault. Scrounging for the flyaway sheets, Tate gives up, watching them disappear in the crowd, he sits back on his ankles. There goes those drawings.

A warm feeling explodes from his nose. Reaching up, he touches underneath the flesh, quickly looking at his pointer finger, which was now stained glossy red. He swings his knee up, standing and holding his nose with his entire palm. Finding the bathroom across the now empty hall, he rushes to the boys’ room, turning and opening the door with his back.

Red drops leave a trail on the baby blue square tiles to the porcelain sink. Yanking the lever, brown paper towels dispense in his hand and he rips them out of the slot. “Fuckin’ asshole.” He mutters to himself as blood coats the scratchy paper. Eyelids begin to droop and the room spins around him.

Another pounding headache. Tarring a sliver of paper towel off, he crumbles it into a ball, stuffing it in his nostril. He blinks, screwing his eyes shut and shaking his head, digging in his bag that’s snug around his torso. A round bottle finds his palm so he pulls it out, popping the cap off; spilling a couple of the pink pills in his mouth. He swallows them dry.

Until he cracks his eyes open, gazing in the mirror sleepily, he doesn’t realize tears rolling down his cheeks. Puffs of irritated pink flesh rim his eyes, making the dark color a lot more prominent. The back of his hand wipes his cheeks and he stares at it, moving the other hand to grab his wrist with three fingers.

Through the slightly dirty mirror, Tate traces the bulging veins and bones that are in his hand. Fucking hell he is skinny. He rubs his wrist back and forth before creeping his fingers to the hem of his sweater. Please don’t let there be bruises, please don’t let there be bruises. Heaving in a deep breath, he hikes up the black and red sweater; a new slightly pink spot sprawled under his ribcage along with ugly old purplish spots. That’ll sure be purple tomorrow.

Adjusting his shirt, he sighs, yanking the now bloody paper towel out of the cave. He tilts his chin upward, peering at his nose in the mirror. Not too bad, he decides, tossing the red ball in the trash. Standing up a bit straighter, he stares daggers at himself. “Okay, you can do this.” He reminds himself. “Two more hours and then job and then grocery store and then home to Addie and Beau.” He nods at the mental list.

Unexpectedly, the door opens, slamming against the white-gray wall. Tate’s head whips to the side, his bleach blond curls falling in his eyes. A buff guy from the wrestling team enters, smirking. “Talking to yourself again because you got no friends, freak?” He jokes, squatting down for emphasis.

So what if he is? Tate grinds his teeth, shaking his head slowly. “No…” He grumbles, fumbling with his bag strap in both hands. If Tate could punch the dick without consequences, he so would deck the douchebag square in the face. Instead, he hunches over slightly, pressing his palm to the door and pushing. He ignores the dizzy feeling.

When he’s in the vacant hallway, he stands up straighter, sighing almost overdramatically. One day he’s going to rule this school. His shoes scuff on the floors and he starts walking, leaning against the wall for extra support. Ugh, damn migraine.

“Focus Tate.” He reminds himself in a whisper, smacking his forehead and pushing his golden locks back. “Gotta go to work soon… Need money to buy...food.” He says, blinking fast as he goes towards his 5th period.


	3. Work Sucks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tate goes to work at the record store

Rusted wheels roll against cracked concrete, skidding to a stop in front of a music store. It's a decent size building; not too big, not too small, with brick walls and a purple neon sign in front of a fake record that reads 'Decks'. Two glass doors sit in the middle; a record that's split in half as the door handles. Plants sprout from the sidewalk, lining the edges of the brick walls. 

Yep, this is where Tate works. Sounds cool, doesn't it? Sometimes Tate thinks it is. When he's not getting screamed at by some bitchy customer or his boss. Then it can seriously suck. 

The skateboard rests against his faded blue jeans, digging into his flesh slightly. He squints at the shop. He's ten minutes late because some asshole almost hit him with their truck. Therefore, he's going to be yelled at or told off...again. For the, what was it now, eleventh time today? He's lost count. 

"Let's get this over with..." He mumbles out loud, heaving a deep sigh. With a deadweight arm, he grasps the door, cracking it open just enough to be able to slide in; which isn't that hard due to the lack of fat on his body. The handheld bell rings from above him, making his presence known to everyone in the store. A whopping count of five people! "Wow so busy..." Sarcasm drips from his voice. 

"You're almost fifteen minutes late, boy!" Tate cringes when he's immediately met with his boss screaming. "Where in gods name you been?!" Despite being shorter than the teen, the middle aged man is extremely intimidating; a sender face that consists of a salt-n-pepper goatee, bushy eyebrows, and dark skin tone. 

Tate balls his hands to his chest, still holding the skateboard in the process, moving his shoulders forward. "Geez, sorry, I wa-" he begins, his voice soft and timid. 

"I don't care if your mama gets hit by a car!" He jokes, snorting, "You get here on time; got that boy?!" The blond nods, grumbling a 'yes, Mr. Desie'. "Mhm. Now get to work!" He scolds, spinning on his heel to the break room. The door slams closed. 

Standing straight, Tate scowls at the bald man, trudging to the empty front desk. "'Got that, boy?'" He mocks, throwing the tan board under the desk, along with his trench coat. "Yeah, I got somethin' for you..." He trails off, scoffing. Oh, if he didn't need this job...

Shoving his hand in his torn messenger bag, he grabs the plastic blue-gray pin, careful not to stab himself like usual. On the plastic rectangle, 'T a t e' is spelled out in simple typewriter font; somehow this name tag doesn’t feel like it's his real name. Maybe because he sees every day; maybe it's like repeating a word in a mirror, after a while it feels as if you made it up. 

The silver point punctures two holes in his checkered sweater; one in a bright red square, then through a black. With a bored expression, the blond backs up, resting his elbows on the desk as he leans forward; legs spread wide and jeans pockets in the air. He flicks the pencil that's placed in front of him, watching it roll back. He flicks it again. The orange octagon tumbles back to his knuckles. 

 

Hands on the clock behind him ticks. It echoes through the entire store. “Oh, well look who finally decided to show up!” Hallie, the tall brunette with blonde tips, smirks, holding her pink purse under her arm. 

Hallie is a classic stuck up rich girl. Always bad mouthing people or throwing hissy fits. A scowl stays put on the punk’s face. He glares up at her, not moving. “Sorry, I was preoccupied in not getting hit and dying; thanks for your concern.” He grits his teeth. If you can't tell, the sarcasm in his quiet voice is more promenade than it usually is.

“Yeah, okay, whatever. Don't care.” She scoffs, moving her hair off her forehead using a shiny green policard nail. “Thanks for being late, Tate! Boss even paid me a lil extra for staying!” Her annoyingly high pitched voice giggles; she flicks her circle shaped sunglasses off her ponytail, covering her gray eyes. “Do me a favor; show up on time. You cut into my shopping day! Anyway, tootles!” She waves her fingers, skipping out the door. 

Tate hates her. He's made that crystal clear on more than one occasion. He sighs, standing up normal and picking up the pencil, twirling it in between his fingers. “Bitch…” He mutters, throwing the utensil in her direction. Honestly, she is spoilt brat that gets whatever she wants and that angers him. 

Why did he have such a shitty life? Why couldn’t he be rich, or have a family, like her? Speaking of family, Addie and Beau pop in his mind.

His hands disappear under the desk, into the cubby area with supplies. Post-it notes and a pen drop on the table as Tate drums on the flat surface. “Okay, okay, what'd we need?” He mumbles to himself, picking up the pen. “Cereal, milk, pancake mix, stuff for dinner, pbj…” He trails off and stops scribbling, tapping his chin in thought. “Oh, Addie needs new underwear….” The pen impales the notepad again.

Below the desk, in the old faded converse, Tate’s big toe wiggles through the massive hole in his sock. Ignore that. He doesn't need new socks. “I wanna buy this.” A elderly man holds the record, placing it on the table. Wrinkles draw on his face and his eyes squint while his back hunches. 

Oh yeah, job; working. Dropping the pen, Tate grins, showing off his dimples. “Yes, right, sorry.” He apologizes; fingers scratching around the album to pick it up. As he scans the barcode, the brown eyes scan the cover; never heard of this band. Must be country or jazz. “13.50$.” He states, grabbing a bag from the side of the desk. 

When the older gentleman takes out a bag of coins, Tate’s eyes widen. Are you serious right now? The man starts pulling quarters from the plastic baggie, counting extremely slow. Tate takes a deep breath in, huffing out and shaking his head. It's the nineties for crying out loud! Get a debit card or something… “Here you are, son.” The man pushes the pile of silver across the counter. 

Quickly counting, Tate hands over the plastic bag. “There ya go, dude.” Shit. He just called an old man dude...again. Luckily, the man just exits. Phew, problem avoided. With a breath of relief, he slams his head on the table, stretching his arms and gripping the edge; sweater sleeves riding up his battered forearms. He would let a scream out, if he wasn't in public. Work especially. 

The minutes pass one by one until it's 4:01. He's been here for two and a half hours and it's finally over. Picking up his bag, it lands on the desk with a clunk. “Mr. Desie! I'm heading out!” He yells, since nobody's in the shop. There's a grunt of acknowledgement, followed by something along the lines about not being late again. 

His palm presses against the cool glass when he pushes the door open. Wind blows viciously, making the dark trench coat that's hanging off his shoulders flap. Sighing, he gives in, finally using the arm holes. The shoes step on his board and he pushes off with one foot, heading towards main street, where Walmart is.


	4. Making Dinner and Eating Sucks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tate makes dinner and well...

tw: self harm, eating disorder

The plastic bags swing in the wind as the skateboards wheels screech to a stop. Toeing his foot underneath the tan piece of wood, Tate kicks it in the air; catching it with his free hand. Yes! That trick worked finally! Maybe now he can practice other ones.

Stomping up the brick steps; shoes scuff the ground, leaving a trail of fading black behind that will wash away when it rains. His board shifts from his hand to under his arm before fingers dig into the rugged pocket, pulling a house key out. It's about two inches; a bronze corrode key. He jams it under the doorknob, moving his arm so the light gray plastic bag won't fall off.

He's met with unbearable silence. 4:39. Addie stayed after school today. She should be home any minute. Stepping inside, he tosses the key in the glass bowl that sits on wooden table. His skateboard finds its home in the corner. Shoes squeak when he enters the kitchen; bags colliding with marble countertop and boxes of food spill out.

"Tate Riley Langdon!" Nora suddenly appears; causing Tate to jump, holding on to the milk tightly. Damn ghosts. "What have I told you about this?" She gestures to the food; hand on a hip, jewelry jangling, lips in a tight frown.

Removing the cool jug from his chest, he huffs out a sigh, opening the fridge. "Nora, if I don't do the shopping, who will?" He shrugs, putting away the milk. "You can't; Constance is never home and she wouldn't anyway. So, I'm the only one left! Besides, it doesn't bother me." He argues, spinning around and grabbing a box of cereal to put away. Honestly, he doesn't know why Constance bothers to come home. All she does is smoke and drink in her bedroom when she's here.

Nora follows him around. "She's your mother for crying out loud! Why does-" she pauses, shaking her head, "You're a teenage boy, Tate. You shouldn't be taking care of two kids; bathing, feeding them. Which reminds me, when is the last time you ate, honey?" She asks; her hands grabbing his cheeks, making it so he can't move. Cool metal of her many rings press against his warm skin.

He shrugs, craning his neck to escape her grasp. "Dunno. Yesterday maybe?" He offers, playing with the mac & cheese box he just picked up. Actually, it's been two and a half days, but who's counting other than Tate? "Look Nora, I know you wanna help, but…could you please not? I've got this under control. I don't wanna argue. Beau's upstairs and Addie's gonna be home any minute and I promised-" he takes a giant yellow box out and dumps it on the counter, disregarding the plastic bag on the floor. "I'd make pancakes for dinner." He whispers, putting his hands on his hips. When did his hips get so…skinny?

Nora crosses her arms; her tan shawl flapping around. "Tate, you're like my child, I can't help but worry-" she stops, hearing the breaks of the bus scream. A frown tugs corners of her lips down. In an instant, she's gone.

Sighing, Tate flips around so his palms are pressed to the glossy stone. It's not that he hates Nora; loves her to death, yet she can be a little overbearing, much like a normal mom. Yes, maybe he does way more than average teenage boys, but who cares? Not him, that's for sure. He shakes his curls from his eyes, tearing the box open and pouring the mix, eggs, milk, and butter in a bowl.

"Tate?!" Addie screams when she comes in. Her long hair flops against her back and she throws her backpack somewhere in the hallway.

She goes to the kitchen, finding her older brother holding a silver bowl, mixing something brown with a whisk. "Pancakes!" She rejoices, clapping her hands; Tate just smiles. Her face twists in confusion. "What's that?" She points his forearms.

Sweater sleeves are scrunched up to his elbows so his pale skin shows. Faded red lines paint up his arms; some light pink, some dark red. "It's nothing." He says quickly, shaking his head. Trying to avoid any further questions, he pours the batter on the pan. It creates sizzling circles. "How was school?" He asks; not breaking eye contact with the stove. Please let her be distracted enough to forget what she saw.

Her face lights up as she begins talking about school. Tate only really half listens to what she's saying, nodding every once and awhile. As soon as the pancakes are done, he stacks two of them on a white plate, setting them in front of her, drizzling syrup on top. "And here you are!" He smiles, sitting across from his sister with his own plate. Which is just one pancake. There's plenty left over.

Brown, almost black, eyes stare down at the glass plate. Only one pancake. He can eat it...right? Metal of the fork feels so foreign in his hand but he picks it up anyway, holding it sideways to cut the fluffy circle. Tate stabs a piece, shoving it in his mouth. It makes him want to throw up but he forces it down his throat. Sure, he could make the pancake come up later; then again, Tate doesn't believe in bulimia. He knows it exists, that people actually do it, yet, bulimia is pitying yourself. Either feed yourself or don't, Tate says. And he doesn't.

"Don't you like them?" Addie's voice snaps him out of his thoughts. She has a trail of syrup down her chin; her hazel orbs wide in shock.

The blond gulps loudly. What should he say? "Um... I just had a big, big lunch is all!" He lies, patting her hand. She doesn't need to know. "How 'bout we go watch cartoons?" Subject change. Nice, Tate, nice. Addie beams, running to the living room and flipping on the box. Looney Tunes theme song floods the house.

Pushing up off the table, he grabs his plate, whistling as he walks to the garbage, sweeping more than half a pancake into it. After rinsing off sticky syrup, the plate goes in the dishwasher, followed by another and slams shut. Placing plastic wrap over the stack of uneaten pancakes, he puts them on a shelf in the fridge. Then he joins the young girl in the living room.

After a few episodes, Tate gets up from the carpet, turning buttons on the TV. Addie groans, falling back on the floor over dramatically. "Oh, come on, no whining!" He chuckles, grabbing her arms, trying to get her to stand. "It's almost 8:30; bed time, come on!" He frowns. Nothing happens. "We can get ice cream tomorrow after school?" He offers; even though there's like five dollars to his name. He'll figure that out tomorrow.

She jumps, heading upstairs with a smile. Tate shakes his head, following her to the bathroom, waiting outside as she uses it. When she comes out in her light blue pajamas, he carries her to her room, plopping her underneath the fluffy orange comforter; pulling it up her small body. His lips touch her forehead gently before he yanks the metal string to the bedside lamp; turning out the light bulb.

He shuffles towards the doorway. "Night night, princess." He whispers to the darkness, closing the door, leaving it open slightly so only a sliver of light creeps in.

A yawn comes from him while he trudges to his room. Band posters watch as he peels his sweater from his body, flinging it to somewhere unknown to him, soon followed by his blue jeans. His knee indents the mattress, along with his hands, and it shifts to accommodate his weight. Blond curls fan against the navy blue pillow case and his bruises that are ingrained in his pale flesh disappear in the darkness.

His head turns towards the gray alarm clock; eyes watching neon red numbers fold into each other. This goes on for two hours. Tired for sleep to come, he gets up, wrapping a worn out plaid robe around him and grabbing a cigarette as well as a lighter from the bottom dresser drawer. Quietly, he pads down stairs, creaking the door open and stepping outside.

Flames flick from the lighter, heating the tip of the cigarette. Tate breathes in…then out. He sits on the steps. The bumps of bricks hurt his ass but he doesn't move. Simply places the cigarette in between his dry lips again; inhaling and exhaling smoke. Yes, he knows this isn't good for you; neither is not eating. Who's gonna stop him?

He slowly turns his head, hearing a rustle from the bushes lined by the fence. With the cigarette still hanging from his long fingers, he stands, lifting his chin. A orange tabby cat emerges from shrubs, prancing over to Tate's legs, weaving in between them. "Hey little dude." He sighs, sitting back down and taking another puff of smoke. "Where'd you come from, hmm? Got a family?"

Long fingers scratch between the triangle shaped ears. No collar. "I barely have a family; it's alright." He reassures the cat, watching it climb in his lap. Tate smushes the cigarette out, flicking it somewhere. "Maybe I could be your family..." Eyes squint as he picks up the cat. Boy. Standing up, the blond starts going inside. "I'll call you Kurt." He smirks.

It's 12:49 when Tate goes into his room. He places Kurt on his bed as he removes his robe. "Warning, I will cuddle you... Maybe then I'll fall asleep..." He whispers, climbing into bed. Kurt's fluffy body lays on his bare chest, with the boy's arm holding the cat in place. He's warm; comforting. Just enough that Tate's eyes finally flutter closed.


	5. Always In Trouble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just another start of a shitty day.

Tate wakes up to his mom screaming at him. She waves her hands while ranting about something. "You brought home a damn pet! What if Larry's allergic?! You're such a stupid son!" Constance smacks him; he hisses and flinches, tears already welling in his eyes. "Now get up and get dressed! You have school! I don't want another damn phone call!" She yells, stomping out of the room; her flower print dress twirling around her calves.

"Woof..." He breathes. Sighing, Tate touches his red cheek, flinching as he does so, and looks down at the cat. His nose scrunches when he sniffles. "It's okay, Kurt. That happens a lot. I'm used to it." He reassures, stroking the orange fur. "Barely feel it." He nods, convincing himself. It only stings. It'll go away.

He wraps his fingers around Kurt, picking him up to move the blanket. Sliding his feet to the side, he pulls himself off the bed. Another shitty day in the Langdon house. Tate walks to the already open draw, peering at the mess of sweaters. Most of them are dark colors; blue, black, occasionally an off-gray.

Scrunching his nose, brown eyes shoot down. "What should I wear today?" He asks, yes, to Kurt. Obviously the cat doesn't respond; only purrs into Tate's bare chest. "How 'bout this?" He picks up a ratty grassy green sweater that has thumb holes in the sleeves. Tate's favorite because it keeps his hands warm, unlike what they usually are.

Kurt jumps on the bed, curling into a big ball of fluff. "You really like to sleep, don't ya?" Tate snorts, pulling the shirt over his mess of hair. "I feel ya, man..." He sighs, petting the fluffy orange fur before getting pants. Sliding them on, he notices that they don't stay on his hips. With a long sigh, his thumb sneaks behind the button, pulling the waistband of the blue jeans. There's a good space that his body doesn't fit in, probably due to the lack of food he eats.

Luckily he has a stud belt he can slide in the loops. Half of the belt fits around his waist and the other he has to tuck in. He struggles to get on his black and white converse, but finally does. Before leaving, he grabs his thumb ring off the wooden dresser. Never goes anywhere without it.

"Stay." He points at Kurt, shutting the door. Long fingers tangle in his blond hair, erasing the knots that were created last night, as he races downstairs. Constance already helped Addie; he heard the complaining when he was getting dressed.

He spins with the stair bannister, heading in the kitchen. "Hey Adds." He kisses her head. "Have a good day; gotta go girl." He hugs Addie; ruffling her magenta dress, turning to Constance, who's making coffee. "Goodbye darling mother..." He says, sarcasm evident in his voice; adding a salute to top it off. She rolls her eyes, ignoring him. Not unusual.

Tate scoffs, grabbing his dusty bag and skateboard. The door opens and closes with a slam like lightning. Cool autumn wind kisses his cheeks and nose, sending shivers through his body as he glides smoothly. Should've had his trench coat on. Too late to go back now.

Impatiently, the blond waits for the light to change from green to red, pulling his sweater sleeves down. Stupid cars. His foot moves back and forth above the tan piece of wood, dragging it along. The green light disappears, replaced by a red one, signaling for people to cross.

Tate shoots like a bullet; occasionally pushing his left foot on the sidewalk for more speed. Branches of bushes scrape his side when he passes a house, making him hiss and stop a yard away from school. Carefully, he pulls his sweater up, showing off the gash in his side. It's not too deep, but deep enough to start bleeding.

He sighs, "Shit..." Shaking his head, he let's go of the fabric, allowing it to cover the wound. He'll deal with that one later...and the rest. Continuing to skate, he gets to the blue metal doors, stopping. Picking up his board, he slings it over his shoulder, gripping the gray door handle and yanking it open. Not late today, he confirms, squeezing into the mass of teenagers blocking the hallway.

He tries to hold his own as he's pushed and shoved towards his locker. 64. After he unlocks it, the skateboard flies in and he takes the meaty textbook out, only for it to be thrown to the floor. "Whoops." A jock snickers, kicking the book; it slides almost all the way down the hall.

Tate glares, slamming his locker and stomping away; shoulders slumped and hand balled into fist. "Asshole..." He mutters, bending down to reach the thick book.

"What the fuck did you call me?!" The jock shouts, causing everyone in the hall to go silent.

Tate's eyes widen as big as the moon. Oh my god; dumbass heard him. He is in deep shit now. 'Woof...' Tate thinks in his head. Somehow he managed to make trouble before home room even started. Way to go.


End file.
